The alley giddy with needles, chamomile soap,
the old notes in hard pressed script. Four marbled strays remain,
everything is ordinary.
I write from under the tree where we met that strange blooming fall.
Do you remember me? In the ginkgo’s curling shadow, I was the one made small.
Though early, dusk comes quickly, still. I am traveling. The voices all spill into corners.
My limbs are a mystery. It is exactly what it sounds like. I have never left.